"for the happy, the sad, I don't want to be, another page in your diary"

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

They Call Him Lazarus

In the morning, rather bizarrely, Doggo is much better.
He seems to be walking ok and I even take him for a short morning stroll. The trip
to the vet is postponed but we both go to work worried about him. I’m on the
bus due to the forecasted 45 mph winds.

I keep my promised pub lunch appointment with my colleague
although I don’t feel much like eating. A pint is very welcome though.

L’s boss leaves work early, so she does too and heads home to
Doggo at about 2pm. He seems fine as if he's risen like Lazarus. Phew. We’ve both
been on edge all day. He seems his normal self again and is even scrounging L’s
sandwich, bless him, I hope she slapped him. Then he’s outside playing ball,
well barking at it. As we keep saying, we never have understood that dog.

Obviously he’s not getting any younger
and his legs are getting worse but I’m guessing he may have spent most of yesterday with
them folded under him which then meant he was unable to stand on them. So possibly just cramp.